


Days and Nights

by takethisnight_wrapitaroundme



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: (though obviously this doesn't fill OP's prompt), Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Mortal, Arranged Marriage, Community: theoldguardkinkmeme, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Interracial Relationship, Married Sex, POV Nile Freeman, Sexual Content, author is a slut for arranged marriages, is there a tag for UNemotional sex? no?, maybe Booker POV later?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:26:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27513781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takethisnight_wrapitaroundme/pseuds/takethisnight_wrapitaroundme
Summary: [Arranged marriage/historical AU] He is not a prince and she is not a princess. What they have is not a fairy tale, it is just a marriage like any other. An agreement. A transaction. It’s her fault she hasn’t held up her half of the bargain.
Relationships: Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Nile Freeman
Comments: 46
Kudos: 85
Collections: Book of Nile Collection!





	Days and Nights

**Author's Note:**

> So I saw [this Nicky/Joe prompt](https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/5880.html?thread=2109944#cmt2109944) and I shamelessly adapted it for Book/Nile because these two are _perfect_ for arranged marriage AUs and I need way more of them in my life. _*bows & presents you this fic on a little platter*_ Please enjoy my humble offering, friends. :)
> 
>  **Prompt:** _Up to filler if they are royalty or if it’s Victorian AU or some fantasy scenario etc, I’m not fussy. ~~Nicky and Joe~~ Nile and Booker are in an arranged marriage. It’s perfectly pleasant, they are civil towards each other, mostly they stay out of each other’s way, occasionally share meals and discuss neutral topics. It’s all very proper. Once a week ~~one of them~~ Booker traverses the house/palace/mansion to where his ~~husband’s~~ wife’s bedroom is so they can engage in fulfilling their marital duties._

He comes to her on Sunday evenings. Always just after nine, when they have each had a few hours to themselves to digest dinner and wash and indulge in their own private pursuits. Usually Nile tries to draw in the evenings, after her bath and before he arrives, though she rarely accomplishes anything at that time of night. She is too busy thinking about him, wondering what he does with his time alone. Reads, probably. He’s very fond of books. And silence.

He greets her the same way every time. _Good evening, dear._

There is no warmth in the endearment, but nor does Nile expect any. Eight months into this marriage, and she’s starting to wonder if he even remembers her name. She doesn’t think that he has ever called her by it.

Not that it matters, really. She never calls him by his name either. They rarely ever speak apart from perfunctory questions during meals, mindless chatter about the weather or the harvest, and quick greetings if they happen to pass in the halls. Nile knew going into it that married life was supposed to be quiet, but she never expected it would be _this_ quiet.

After all, it wasn’t quiet the first night. The sounds he had pulled out of her, like treasure from the depths. She hadn’t even known she was capable of making those noises. Hadn’t known she could feel that way, pleasure to the point of near blindness. And that had been just at the feel of his _tongue_ inside her.

She’d begged to God that night, as if he’d been in the room with them. As if he could stop it or—make it go on forever. She hadn’t been sure which she’d wanted at the time, but it hadn’t mattered. Her husband had descended on her like a man possessed, and she thought at the time that it was with lust. Now she’s come to realize that he was just trying to get the thing done as quickly as possible, without tears to mar the memory.

“You should lift your hips,” he told her after he’d finished that first night. “It’s supposed to help.”

She didn’t have to ask what for, and he didn’t need to tell her twice. She may not have known all the tricks, but she knew her role, so she did as directed. He sat there on the edge of the bed, watching as she adjusted herself, and then when he was apparently satisfied, he got up, gathered his clothes, and left. She lay there for a while afterwards, staring at the ceiling, her legs propped up above her naked body, wondering if this was the bed his first wife had died in while laboring to give him a son.

Her husband leaves flowers at their graves every week. Nile watches him from her window on Monday mornings. Rain or snow or wind, he is always there, walking across the wide expanse of lawn to the little cemetery on the far side of the hill.

The timing of the gesture is not lost on her.

If she were a different kind of woman, she might be affronted by it. If she were the combative type, she would demand that he stop, respect her position, and leave the past in the past. But she is who she is, and so mostly she just pities him. She can’t begin to imagine feeling that much love, let alone that much loss.

She has never gone near the graves herself, though she’s often thought of doing so over the last eight months. But she knows without having to be told that the cemetery is his domain alone. She gets the feeling that if she were to even stray near it, he would know, and she doesn’t like to think how he’d react. She’s invaded enough of his life, enough of his home. Surely he deserves to have a place all to himself, where he can feel as guilty as he likes and do his best to atone for the sin of marrying her.

Nile speaks to no one about her misgivings. The servants are his, first and foremost, and the few acquaintances she has made since settling at the estate are closer to rivals than friends. She knows better than to trust any of them with anything remotely sensitive. She receives letters from her mother, full of news from home and advice for her marriage, and Nile manages courteous but detached replies.

 _He treats you well?_ her mother is quick to ask in the weeks following the wedding, and Nile can only say yes, because he _does_ treat her well. Her husband sees to her every need, and he is never anything but unfailingly polite to her. The same as he is to the servants or people he bumps into on the street. Strangers.

But he wears the ring she put on his finger and he calls her his wife and he’s inside her nearly every week, so they are hardly _strangers_. Or maybe she only wishes they weren’t.

She did not marry with the foolish expectation of love, but she did think that, over time, there might be the possibility of it. And while he does come to her room every week, and they go through the motions of passion, she knows there is no love there. Hardly any affection. He is performing a duty, and they both know it.

She will come to find peace with it eventually, she knows. The practical part of her has been bracing for a reality like this one ever since she was a little girl. There is, after all, a reason why women find solace in children: they freely give the unconditional love their husbands are incapable, or unwilling, to offer. They smile and laugh and make life easy. The hard part is bringing them into the world in the first place.

Every month she wakes up with blood between her legs feels like another failure, and the worst part is having to tell him. She would lie if she could, and usually she does by omission, but there is no way to hide the truth if she’s bleeding when he visits her room on Sundays. The first time it happened, she couldn’t even get the words out. He was already undressed by the time he slid a hand in between her legs. He hadn’t needed to pull away to look; she could tell from the way his eyes found hers that he knew from touch alone that it was blood. She bit her lip, waiting, wondering if he would fuck her through it, using her blood as slick and taking his own pleasure for clearly there was nothing else to be gained. He’d be well within his rights to do so. But instead, he simply pulled his hand away, put his clothes back on, and bid her goodnight before leaving.

She sat on the bed for a while afterwards, staring at the door and wondering why she felt disappointed. She hadn’t been particularly looking forward to the sex. But having him in the room—having his full attention—was a rare thrill, and she was finding she had trouble going without it.

Even months later, that initial rush still hasn’t subsided. All it takes is his knock on her door, and she is full of anxious nerves again, just like the first time. She always has to take a calming breath before calling for him to enter.

He is slow this evening, distracted. She can tell the moment he steps inside the room that his mind is elsewhere, and if they were the type of couple that talked, she might ask him what is weighing on him. But they are not, so instead she sets her charcoal aside and rises from the desk, stepping silently towards the bed. Over the past few months, she has come to recognize certain preferences he has, and one of them is for her to be there on the bed, waiting, while he undresses.

If she were more brazen, she would wait for him naked. But she hasn’t quite found enough courage for that yet. And besides—she secretly likes the feel of his hands pushing up her shift. His touches are habitual, but they still make her heart pound and her breathing grow shallow.

He kisses the side of her neck first, as usual, and she closes her eyes, arching into the touch. He doesn’t shave regularly on the weekends and the bit of stubble that grows in two days’ time always makes her shudder and wish for more. She is careful, though, never to turn towards him or seek his mouth with her own. She tried on their wedding night, twice. The first time, he turned away—she thought on accident—and her kiss landed on his cheek. The second time, determined to do better, she took his face in her hands and kissed him squarely on the mouth. It lasted all of three seconds before he ducked away, murmured firmly, _None of that now,_ and found other ways to occupy his mouth.

She has not tried to kiss him since, not even once.

She hopes he’s noticed. She may not have succeeded in getting pregnant—yet—but she does know how to follow orders, and she learns quickly. That must count for something.

He is systematic in the way he touches her, and after so many months, she knows his routine as well as she knows her prayers. While he kisses her neck, he’ll cup one of her breasts above the fabric of her shift, and drag his thumb back and forth across the nipple until it hardens. It doesn’t take long—she’s always been sensitive there, and the friction of the cloth against her skin never fails to make her squirm.

Once he’s satisfied there, he’ll reach down and push her shift above her hips, sliding first one finger, then another, inside of her. Some nights, she doesn’t need much stimulation to take him in; other nights, if he’s feeling generous, or—the only word she can think of is— _hungry_ , he’ll follow his fingers with his mouth, and it’ll be like that first night again.

Every time, she tells herself she’ll stay quiet, but somehow the sounds that escape from between her lips never quite seem to be in her control. She can’t tell if he likes the noise or not. She has no way to see his face while he’s down there, and he says nothing after he surfaces. He just takes himself in hand, presses inside, and slides easily through the slippery passage between her thighs.

This is the only part of the evening that varies in any noticeable way. Sometimes he’ll take his time, drawing it out long and slow, pushing deeper and deeper inside her until the pleasure is so intense it almost feels like pain. Other times, he’s faster about it, his hands gripping her body tightly, his hipbones scraping hard against hers with each thrust. Every once in a while, he’ll whispers in her ear, _Good?_ , his voice low and urgent like he really wants to know, and and she always whispers _Yes_ back, because surely there isn’t another answer. It’s true most of the time anyway, so she doesn’t feel too bad about the few lies that get mixed in.

Always, he keeps himself inside her after he’s arrived at his climax, thrusting shallowly until he’s spent all of himself and done his part to push it forward. He is careful when he pulls out, and she is careful too as she lifts her hips and shifts sideways on the bed. She’s found it’s easiest if she places the soles of her feet against the headboard and lifts her hips up to create a kind of stair with her body, letting the weight fall onto her shoulders and allowing gravity to do its vital work.

As she props herself up, he rises from the bed and cleans himself off before picking up his clothes. She closes her eyes, taking some comfort in the sounds of him moving about her room. Her side of the house is far too quiet, and it’s nice to have a reminder that someone else lives here with her.

“I am going into town tomorrow,” he says, and she can tell from the brief muffle that he was pulling his shirt over his head as he spoke. When he next speaks, his voice is clearer: “Is there anything you’d like me to get you?”

“Oh.” Nile opens her eyes but hesitates at the question, unsure of what he’s offering. What is she supposed to ask for? He provides her with everything.

“Do you need more charcoal?” When she doesn’t say anything, he adds, “Or I could get you paints, if you prefer?”

“Paints…” She’s never painted before, but he’s waiting for an answer, so she says, “Paints would be nice.”

She doesn’t know what she’ll do with them, but what does it matter? He likes to feel like he’s doing something, and she knows the instinct well. They both need to be kept busy to distract from how they are failing at the only task that matters.

“Paints it is.”

In the periphery of her vision, she can just barely see him nod. She listens to his footsteps, and as he reaches the door, some wild instinct tells her to call out.

“Thank you,” she says, “for the paints.”

“Haven’t gotten them yet,” he answers matter-of-factly.

“Yes, well.” She swallows, unsure of what to say. When the silence stretches on, she feels the need to fill it, and she ends up blurting the first thing that comes to her mind: “I know you are a man of your word.”

She can sense him lingering by the door, and she thinks for a second he is going to argue the point for some reason. But all he says is, “I hope I can be.”

She hears the doorknob turn and, following that same strange urge, she calls out again, tipping her head all the way back this time so she can see his face before he leaves.

“Goodnight, Sébastien.”

Something twitches in his face at her use of his given name, but her line of sight is too awkward to be able to tell what it could mean. There’s a shrewdness in his gaze, though, when it meets hers, like he can sense she’s testing him.

“Goodnight, Nile.”

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this was an absolute joy, but, full disclosure, I did it without sketching out _any_ plot whatsoever. I have no idea where I’m going with this or when it will be updated. I just know I’m a sucker for this trope and I _love_ writing historical AUs, so you may see more here sometime (please be patient with me 😊).
> 
> In the meantime, feedback is quite literally my lifeblood, so if you could do me a favor and give me a transfusion by leaving a comment below… Well, I’ll love ya forever!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
